Other hopes for today? That GOOG will shoot up to 700 or so. That URBN will at least reach that point where I can comfortably bail. That Marmy Fluffy Butt's left eye ceases to seep, so she can have some relief from her allergies. That I successfully capture on video the behavior that inspired Dobby the Runt's nickname of "Butt Boy." [And that the video be appropriate for a G-audience.] That Fred stop racing toward the drawbridge in his sleep [He keeps hearing knocks and "yoohoo"s in his dreams. Twice already this morning, he's gone flying by, knees pumping, chest out, yelling, "I'm coming, I'm coming!" My reassurances that there's been nary a knock and not even one "yoohoo," were met with drowsy disbelief.]
Let's see, what else? I hope that My Hero, Ms. Hannah, gets to go home from the hospital today, after her successful rotationplasty last Friday. Her Mom summed things up yesterday this way, on her CaringBridge site:
I could not hold back my tears of joy as I watched Hannah--my "miracle baby"--do her physical therapy session. She did almost everything on her own. She only had help from physical therapist for balance. Hannah did not flinch or pout or complain or cry. She said it didn't hurt at all and was no big deal. She stood up on her own for a 5-count then sat back down and did that 5 times in a row. Every day I am more amazed by this kid. I'm so proud of her!
I know there are more hopes percolating inside my head and heart. Dare I give them voice?
I hope that the two-inch nugget glimpsed under the bed (from whence I was retrieving my grabber -- using my cane!) is not what I think it is. This is the Poo-Free Zone of The Manor.
I hope that federal officials can charge George Zimmerman in the murder of Trayvon Martin, as well as investigate any malfeasance on the part of the Sanford police. There are several reports that seem credible of officers attempting to "mold" witness statements into a form friendly to Zimmerman's twisted version of the crime.
I hope that yesterday's despair doesn't taint today's progress. The return of fever, sweats, and that particular pain of the bone infection really got to me, for some reason. As if another couple of far-from-routine surgeries, $250,000+ in hospital and LTAC bills, intravenous vanco and Cubicin, oral Bactrim, and the wound vac experience were not enough to make me realize that I'm in the midst of another failed attempt at a cure, it took my inability to pop the top off of a can of Progresso soup to have it all sink in. [The soup? Tortilla y pollo, doctored for more heat.]
Other fantasies? That I could spend this Persian New Year with my former best friend, the Wild Iranian Lesbian, admiring the beautiful table, the flowering hyacinth, the optimistic gold fish. My hope, of course, is for her year to be a wonderful trip around the sun.
I dare to hope that the Ellerbecks have a measure of comfort, somehow, today.
I wish Captain Haddock would just go ahead and surface in the moat, in his jaunty little pink submarine -- the threat of a Domestic Inspection is so much worse than the actual wielding of The White Glove. [Fred found The Castafiore waxing the steps of Buonarroti's Spiral Staircase again, and spritzing the Old Masters with household cleaner laced with ammonia.]
Given what I can glimpse outside this casement window, newly installed in the upgraded Computer Turret, I hope to "play in the dirt again" sometime very soon, if not this day. The sky is blue and so is the sea... Drat. Why is I Am a Child playing in my head? I fear it is the impact of thinking about the Trayvon Martin travesty down in Florida.
At least my brain picked the Buffalo Springfield version.
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I hope, as does everyone in vicinity to moi, that I can overcome my fear of falling and take a shower today, the first since the morning of January 23, 2012. Somewhere in this blog, in another of my awesomely introspective and well-organized posts, I detail how to maintain a pristine state without benefit of getting in the bathtub. It's not so easy these days, and more than anything, I actually long for the feel of water on my skin. [In my case, due to CRPS, running water feels an attack of tiny needle sticks -- tolerable, but sometimes just barely tolerable.] My legs, especially, need a soak.
I hope, too, that I can pull off a shower without that being my pinnacle achievement for the day!
Because I also crave and want and expect and yearn for... a day put to good use. You know, when you don't just fill the pets' bowls with food, but take careful time to sanitize the bowls first. Did you know that eating from plastic bowls can cause pimples to sprout around a cat's mouth? I didn't think so! Only one of our bowls is plastic, and we use it because Marmy Fluffy Butt (aka I-choose-to-leave-my-poo-beside-the-litter-box-for-your-maximum-pleasure) will not eat out of anything else. That reminds me. I absolutely pine, fancy, and crave the services of an animal psychologist.
This day, cast useful, should include other bits of spot-cleaning. The disgusting coffee apparatus that Fred uses -- and that Bianca's frequent overnighter, Sven Feingold, adores -- hasn't been washed since... well, since I last had a shower! In between hospitalizations, while I was insane with fever and dehydration, I made several inspired online purchases, the best of which proved to be a new Bodum French press, so I am brewing my coffee separate from Fred, Bianca (and Sven). I tell you, it was like Christmas (finally!) for a few days, in spite of the definite Lenten attitude exhibited by our UPS driver. I had no recollection of my purchases but fortunately, some innate good sense prevailed and I only ordered household items according to an apparent "upgrade" theme. Frilly stuff like a new dish drainer, and magnetized tools (miniature grabbers, really). Even the more wasteful orders are not so wasteful, after all. Not if you squint and stare into the direct sun. For instance, even though we now have enough bonito flakes to make dashi for all of Japan, I have faith that my Buddy the Freakishly Large Kitten will eat his way through them by the end of the year.
How did the shelter staff not know that he was a Maine Coon?!
Other expectations, faith, and fancies for today? That we can figure out the idiosyncrasies of this new wheelchair before hosting the "Wheelchair Tech" tomorrow. It seems like such a small matter, hardly worth someone making the long journey from Tête de Herge's only Full Service Gimp Supply Store. Still, it is not a good thing to suddenly lose power in the midst of crossing the street. There's also the whiplash factor! Fred, stubbornly sticking to scientific method, has debunked each of my theses about the cause of this behavior, citing "coincidence" as the underpinning for my observations. I much desire equanimity should we tackle the problem again this afternoon.
I'd positively love to do some cooking and baking, but cannot wield a knife. That's not true. I just cannot safely wield a knife or expect that my knife skills won't result in personal tragedy. Hence, the adventures with soup cans and many microwave meals. Fred is a great cook but he's kind of in recovery right now, himself, you know. Bianca? Puh-leeze! Sven can concoct some amazing comfort food dishes but I can feel my blood vessels begin to clog after the first few bites. And it turns out that asking for help from the genetically indentured Domestic Staff can result in charges of Abuse of Power. Who knew? Damn those corporate flow charts.
Well, if I don't end this, and then finish revising the post that Blogger was blocking last night, I'll never get to my extensive Wish List. Hmm, how to close, how to close?
As if you weren't expecting it!
Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul,
And sings the tune--without the words,
And never stops at all,
And sweetest in the gale is heard;
And sore must be the storm
That could abash the little bird
That kept so many warm.
I've heard it in the chillest land,
And on the strangest sea;
Yet, never, in extremity,
It asked a crumb of me.
-- Emily Dickinson